The Meeting in the Large Conference Room
by EOlivet
Summary: Samantha had worn the skirt that was not on sale at Bloomingdales, but that wasn't the reason her breath quickened as she entered the large conference room.


Disclaimer: The characters described herein are the property of Hank Steinberg, Warner Brothers Domestic Television and CBS. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
Acknowledgments: To Devanie, for all her support, encouragement and enthusiasm. Now I know why so many people thank you for being such a wonderful beta. I'm very proud to be one of those people. Thanks also to Anna, for her input and open mind.  
  
Rating: TV-14 (PG-13/R). Jack and Samantha pairing, so bail out now if that's not your cup of tea.  
  
***  
  
The Meeting in the Large Conference Room  
  
***  
  
The meeting was in the large conference room. Samantha had worn the skirt that wasn't on sale at Bloomingdales.  
  
It was one of those rare finds -- a skirt that fit well, that looked nice with anything, that could be turned into an outfit for any occasion. It was one of those finds so rare, it was not even worth watching it until it eventually went on sale, for fear someone might snatch it up while she was at work or at home or not at Bloomingdales. So she bought it not on sale. Now there was a meeting in the large conference room.  
  
Usually they had meetings right in the office, around the table near everyone's workspace. The small table. Somehow five chairs crammed around, elbows practically bumping as right-handed people took notes next to left- handed people, and any shift in her chair would cause her skirt to come into contact with a myriad of legs, pants and skirts -- both on sale and not on sale.  
  
The large conference room had a long table, but they still crammed five chairs around the end. Two on one side, two on the other. One at the head of the table.  
  
Martin appeared at her side as she was gathering her folders and notes she'd need for the meeting. She hoped her colleague didn't notice her breath quickening as he fell in step with her towards the large conference room. He was nice and she was pretty and she was sure he would appreciate the skirt she'd bought at Bloomingdales. Appreciate that it was a skirt and she was wearing it because she was pretty and he was nice, but that wasn't the reason her breath quickened as they entered the large conference room.  
  
She arranged her folders and papers in front of the chair to the left of the chair at the head of the table. Mercifully, Martin took the chair across from her. Danny came in next and, seeing that Martin had taken the chair across from her, took the chair next to her, not at the head of the table. Vivian followed soon after, sitting beside Martin, even though there were technically two chairs left, there was really only one choice of a place at the table.  
  
Her breath quickened and her heart sped up as the remaining chair at the head of the table was occupied and now they could start the meeting in the large conference room.  
  
Her breath quickened, her heart sped up and that small smile appeared on her face when she felt Jack's hand on her knee, on her skirt not on sale at Bloomingdales.  
  
Danny was talking now, talking with both of his hands, gesticulating and explaining. She scribbled notes, trying furiously to maintain the appearance that the small smile that appeared on her face was out of interest in the subject that was causing Danny to gesticulate with his hands, and not caused by the hand on her knee, on her skirt not on sale at Bloomingdales under the table in the large conference room.  
  
His hand had moved from its place on her knee, slipping under her skirt, and she sucked in a sharp intake of breath through the smile that had appeared on her face, her heart still speeding up, her breath still quickening, as Danny continued to gesticulate with his hands. She continued to scribble notes with interest on her face, as his hand continued to move up her knee, under her skirt not on sale at Bloomingdales.  
  
Blinking her eyes rapidly, she tried to remember that shopping excursion to Bloomingdales. She'd also bought a pink sweater that was on sale. She'd worn the pink sweater a few days ago when she'd seen him outside of the building before work, and had led him into a nearby alley.  
  
She always had to make the first move. That was their unspoken agreement. She'd done so today by sitting in the chair to the left of the chair at the head of the table. She could've easily chosen to sit next to Martin, who was nice to her because she was pretty and because she wore skirts from Bloomingdales, on sale or not on sale.  
  
She scribbled more notes and idly wondered how she'd chosen to wear her skirt not on sale at Bloomingdales, the skirt slowly inching up her leg as his hand moved further and further away from her knee -- on the day of a meeting in the large conference room. Just as she had wondered a few days ago how she'd chosen to wear the pink sweater that was on sale as she'd led him into the alley outside of the building before work.  
  
It was warm that morning, and her coat had been unbuttoned. Her breath had quickened and her heart had sped up as his hands roamed up and down the front of her sweater, his mouth grazing the sweater's neckline. Her only sharp intakes of breath followed by a series of short, rapid exhales, her eyes fluttering open and shut with every gasp, her cheeks flushing as pink as her on-sale sweater.  
  
The smile that had appeared on her face widened slightly. She'd gone into his office one day after she'd gotten her hair lightened and everyone else had gone home. They had to work late, but she shut the door anyway and as they'd poured through papers long into the night, he'd run his fingers through her hair at regular intervals -- pushing it behind her ears, sweeping it off her shoulders, brushing it from one side of her face to the other. She figured it must be some keen investigative skill to sense when she'd gotten new things and some long-buried male instinct to stake some sort of claim on them, though he could never stake any real claim on her.  
  
Martin cleared his throat, and the hand near her knee, under her skirt not on sale at Bloomingdales flinched, his wedding ring now brushing, burning her skin. She practically jumped, the pen slipping from her fingers, bouncing end over end and rolling towards the edge of the table. She sucked in another sharp intake of breath -- but the smile that had appeared on her face had now evaporated. That pen was going to fall and someone was going to lean over and pick it up and they would see his hand near her knee, under her skirt not on sale at Bloomingdales.  
  
There was a letter in her top desk drawer for such an occasion. That was why they could never cross any boundaries beyond those they had set. It had to look like sexual harassment and nothing more, so if anyone ever discovered them, she could claim it had only happened once, but request to be transferred so she wouldn't feel uncomfortable at work. It had been her idea. The Bureau would avoid embarrassing sexual harassment charges and keep two very competent agents. It would be over and done within a week.  
  
The pen rolled to a stop in the middle of the table and she reached over and picked it up, mustering an embarrassed-looking grin to mask the relief that had flooded her face.  
  
He was careful to shield her from his ring when they were together. Sometimes he'd even remove it, although she never saw exactly how it would manage to disappear without her noticing.  
  
His hand had not moved, rather shifted its position near her knee, under her skirt not on sale at Bloomingdales. So she could no longer feel his ring, only his hand and her skirt, inching further and further away from her knee.  
  
It wasn't as if she hadn't felt his ring before. But only once. And the memory of it was still imprinted on her back.  
  
A month, a year, two years ago, she could never quite remember. That night, the letter in her top desk drawer would've been completely worthless. They were working late, as they'd done countless times before. He had missed the last train to go home, so he'd have to stay in a hotel in town. This wasn't unusual, except this time he'd said it out loud.  
  
"I missed the last train, so I'm gonna have to stay at a hotel in town."  
  
She remembered looking up. He was barely looking at her, but there was no one else there. Then, he said the name of the hotel. And the location. Then he left.  
  
After he had left, she had packed up her things. When he left to go to the hotel, she'd get a cab home, since it was almost always too late to take the subway. That night, she'd left the building and stood on the corner, waiting. A cab flew by. She started walking towards the hotel. It wasn't far. She'd asked for the room number at the front desk, panicking for a moment that someone might see her, but deciding if they did, she could simply say she was dropping off some papers. The elevator took forever to arrive and even longer to climb the tall towers of the building.  
  
He'd opened the door as if he was expecting her. Neither said a word, speaking only in articulate sharp intakes and exhales of quickened breath and racing pulses. A fusion of lips, tongues and limbs. Oh, how quietly they enveloped one another, how loudly their hearts pounded over their soft, fevered whispers of nonsense, peppered with each other's names. Soon after, she slept because it was late and these moments of peace and contentment drowned out her anxiety and fear that had threatened to overtake her from the moment she'd started towards the hotel.  
  
Vivian was speaking now, but Samantha was next to speak. Her lips were dry, parched by their perpetually parted state and those sharp intakes of breath drawing out moisture as her breathing had quickened. Her lips were dry, and that was one of the boundaries they could not cross. This was the one caveat upon which she'd insisted. Like Julia Roberts' prostitute with a heart of gold in Pretty Woman, the lips were off limits. She'd never given conditions -- until, if, when -- this restriction might be lifted because she knew it probably never would. Everyone seemed to forget that those heart-warming happy endings were manufactured later to cover up the real fate of so many fairytale characters.  
  
Besides, what exactly happened to those heroine princesses after the final stroke of the pen? Maybe they didn't always fit perfectly into their new worlds, new lives so strange, so different from the ones they'd always known. Maybe they discovered being a princess isn't all it's cracked up to be.  
  
Julia Roberts had wanted the fairytale. But she already had Richard Gere. Wasn't that enough? Why risk a handful of certain moments for a lifetime of uncertainty?  
  
At work, Samantha dealt with the inconsistencies of human life every day. This was the one constant in her life, upon which she could always depend. After all, Julia Roberts was just greedy...wasn't she?  
  
Then what would be the point of hair lightenings and sweaters and skirts from Bloomingdales, on sale or not on sale. How insignificant it all would seem compared to the constant uncertainty of a fairytale life. When all the hair-smoothing, ear-nibbling, body caressing, hand exploring stopped being surprising and started becoming expected and endorsed. When you stopped adding up the office visits, the alley encounters, the meetings in large conference rooms.  
  
His hand was near her knee, as far as it could go according to the boundaries they had set for occasions such as meetings in large conference rooms. She glanced at him about the same time as he glanced at her and she was amazed to discover her breath wasn't quickening, her heart wasn't speeding up and that small smile that had appeared on both of their faces was full of warmth and...a kind of real affection.  
  
She could still feel his hand near her knee, under her skirt, but somehow it didn't seem as important as his expression when he looked at her during that meeting. A look that made her want to give up all her purchases from Bloomingdales, abstain from all the small, forbidden touches, rip up the letter in her top desk drawer and sit at the other end of the table in the large conference room, if only to keep staring at his face and the way he looked at her.  
  
He was telling her that it was her turn to speak and of course she had to because they were with Martin and Danny and Vivian in a meeting in the large conference room. As she started to explain her role on the case and her findings, she decided not to stop at Bloomingdales on the way home, even though she saw they were having another sale. If there was another skirt or sweater or pair of pants or shoes that was absolutely perfect for her, it would be there when she had time to be there. She thought for a moment what he'd do if she broke their rules the next time she led him anywhere -- if maybe then her lips wouldn't be so parched. She wondered about ripping up the letter in her top desk drawer and replacing it with a new one where the neat, pat excuse she'd carefully formulated was replaced with the simple sentiment that she was leaving and it didn't matter why.  
  
Regardless, she would go to him afterwards and find some plausible reason why they should never have a meeting in here again. It was better to be at the small table, with its bumping of elbows and legs, its closeness, its intimacy that was so lacking in the large conference room.  
  
With that same warm and affectionate smile, she reached under the table for his hand on her leg and clasped the two of them together on her knee. He looked surprised, but made no move to disentangle them as she continued to talk. Her smile widened, as she mused that this occasion alone was worth wearing her skirt from Bloomingdales, especially the one that was not on sale.  
  
The End. 


End file.
